Sorry

Sorry

“We’re sorry to inform you that

Your having a nervous breakdown.”

Well, okay: but I’m just a fucking poet.

I’m not trying to suck biology

Through a straw/

I’m just chain smoking and drinking

And having episodes.

Note to self: confession works

Much better with a cynic present.

Okay so here it is:

I’m refusing to accept objects

As just objects, objectively or

At least optimistically I should just be.

I am drunk on the big why?…

　

The center of the street is quietly cold,

Somewhere in the distance

Someone is receiving a miracle,

The planet lets out it’s language

Solid/beneath the surface,

Every croak in its skin/

Groaning ghost groaning…

Fungus sustains light,

Like smack for the queen,

Like the-shit-that-grows-when-you-stir,

Like repeated conversations when you’re stoned,

Like words you cling to

until the mouth forms tones.

Phone call confessions

During all hours

To drive the point into heaven,

In case you were unsure…

YES.

I admit to watching years without

Attachment craving delicate scents/sights/sounds/

And understanding.

Direction goes every which way,

So: I am facing a thousand points

And carving 62 notches into stone,

One for each trace I left in myself

Of that certain something.

I want conversation without

Excessive salt and spice likewise

For love.

18yrs catches up fairly

Swiftly, its good to see

So many old faces.

II.

Brass rings strung over pipes,

Our work has just begun,

This house with echoes of stone

Enumerations crept up on every wall.

Tone carrying itself cocky and

Unstable through rattling copper pipes,

Fumes mixing with the velocity of water

And the strength of wine.

Tattered abstract pillow cases

Against the form which holds us,

Binding our hearts to explicate longing.

How many years starving off

Sacraments and delusions to wind up

Here and anxious?

Our work has just begun.